Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan leaned closer, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. His fingers brushed the back of her trembling hand resting on the tablecloth – a touch that sent a fresh jolt of heat up her arm, distinct from the alcohol's burn. "Because, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the small space between them, "sometimes, feeling a little... bad... makes everything else feel good. Sharper. Sweeter." He nudged her glass again, the crystal scbanging softly on the linen. "Ek aur sip. Small one. Just taste it properly this time. Let it sit on your tongue. Feel it warm you from inside." His eyes held hers, compelling, stripping away her protests. "For me? Thoda sa hi?" The blend of English and Hindi, the intimate request, felt like another layer of pressure, a demand disguised as coaxing.

"Lekin sir... galti ho gayi toh?" she whispered, the Bengali thick with apprehension. "Mujhe chakkar aa sakta hai..." The thought of dizziness, of losing control in front of him, was terrifying.

Armaan’s smile was a blade in the candlelight. "Chakkar?" he scoffed softly. "Nonsense, Chaitali. Itna thoda sa? Dekho..." He lifted her glass, his fingers brushing hers, sending a spark through her damp palm. He guided the rim to her lips. "Bas ek chutki. Like this." His voice dropped to a velvet murmur, blending Hindi with intimate English. "Let it touch your tongue... hold it... feel the warmth spread. Like sunshine inside, haan? Trust me." The pressure of the cool crystal against her lower lip was inescapable. "For me, Chaitali. Just this sip." His gaze, dark and unblinking, pinned her, stripping away resistance.

Chaitali closed her eyes, the familiar Rabindra Sangeet melody twisting into a dissonant hum. She parted her lips slightly, the sharp, peaty aroma flooding her senses again. She took the smallest sip, letting the liquid pool on her tongue as instructed. It burned, but differently this time – a slow, insidious heat that coated her mouth instead of exploding. She held it, the fire morphing into a strange, spreading numbness that tingled across her palate. She swallowed. The warmth bloomed instantly in her stomach, a slow, heavy wave radiating outward, loosening the tight knot of dread that had clenched her core all evening. "Haan... thoda... garam lagta hai," she breathed, her voice already softer, the Bengali lilt more fluid. Her fingers, still resting near the glass, felt curiously distant.

Armaan watched the transformation unfold with predatory satisfaction. The rigid line of her shoulders softened, melting into the plush velvet of the booth. A faint flush, deeper than before, crept up from the base of her throat, staining the dusky skin above the high dbang of her pallu. Her dark eyes, wide with apprehension moments ago, now held a dazed, unfocused quality. She blinked slowly, her thick lashes fluttering like moth wings against her cheeks. "See?" he murmured, his voice a low purr vibrating in the intimate space. "Achha lag raha hai na? Thoda... light?" He nudged her glass again, the amber liquid catching the flickering candlelight. "Ab finish it. Ek ghoont aur. Bas."  His command was velvet-wrapped steel.

Chaitali lifted the heavy crystal tumbler, her movements slower, less precise. The sharp, medicinal scent still stung her nostrils, but the memory of that spreading warmth, the loosening of the knot inside her chest, overrode the instinctive recoil. She took another sip, larger this time, letting the whisky burn a familiar path down her throat. The heat bloomed more intensely in her stomach, radiating outwards in slow, viscous waves that seeped into her limbs. A strange lightness filled her head, a pleasant buzzing that muffled the clatter of plates and the Rabindra Sangeet. "Haan... haan, sir," she breathed, her voice thicker, the Bengali lilt softer, slurring slightly at the edges. "Garami... spread ho rahi hai." Her fingers traced the condensation on the glass, feeling the cool slickness against her suddenly overheated skin. She took another sip, almost mechanically now, drawn to the deceptive warmth chasing the lingering unease. The glass felt lighter, the liquid disappearing faster. She tilted it back, draining the last fiery drops. A shudder ran through her, not entirely unpleasant, as the final wave of heat settled low in her belly, a heavy, insistent glow.

Armaan watched the empty glass tremble slightly in her hand before she clumsily set it down. Her pallu over the right shoulder had slipped further, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone and the smooth, dusky skin of her shoulder where the silk gaped. The flush had deepened, spreading down her chest, visible even in the dim candlelight above the high neckline of the blouse that wasn't there. Her eyes, dark pools, held a dazed vacancy, the confusion replaced by a hazy surrender. "Good girl," he murmured, the English words low and intimate. He refilled her glass without asking, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal. "Ab thoda relax karo, Chaitali. Feel it? Sab tension... melt ho raha hai?" He leaned closer, his knee brushing hers under the table. The contact sent a jolt through her whisky-numbed senses, a sharp counterpoint to the pervasive warmth. She flinched, a small gasp escaping her lips, but didn't pull away. Her gaze drifted to the newly filled glass, the liquid shimmering like molten gold.

"Sir... main... thoda..." she began, her Bengali slurring, thick as honey. She gestured vaguely towards her head, her fingers clumsy. "Halka sa... chakkar..." The room seemed to tilt gently, the flickering candle flames stretching into blurred streaks. The comforting scent of mustard fish was a distant memory, drowned entirely by the sharp taste of whisky and the cloying sweetness of Armaan's expensive aftershave, which now smelled oppressively close. Her stomach, a vessel of liquid fire, churned uneasily, the warmth turning heavy, almost nauseating.  "Bas ab... nahi pi sakti," she managed, her voice thick and distant, even to her own ears.

Armaan’s smile didn’t waver. He leaned in, his breath warm against her flushed cheek, a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. "Chakkar achha hai, Chaitali," he murmured, the Hindi smooth, intimate. "Means it’s working. Feel it? Sab tightness... gone?" "See? Soft... relaxed. Ab thoda aur... for courage." He nudged the refilled glass towards her lips, the crystal rim cool against her burning skin. "Ek sip. For me. Then we eat, haan?" The promise of food felt hollow, a distant lure in the fog.

Chaitali’s fingers trembled as they closed around the glass. The world tilted – the flickering candle flames stretched into smears of light, the muted Rabindra Sangeet warped into a discordant hum. The whisky’s heat was a heavy, liquid stone in her belly, radiating a strange lethargy through her limbs. "Sir... please..." she whispered, the Bengali thick, slurred. "Mujhe... sach mein... bukhar sa lag raha hai..." Her tongue felt thick, clumsy. She took a small, desperate sip, the fire reigniting briefly before dissolving into the pervasive numbness. The glass slipped slightly in her damp grip, amber liquid sloshing precariously close to the rim.

Armaan seized the moment, shifting his weight on the plush velvet. His thigh pressed firmly against hers under the table. His hand closed over hers on the glass, his fingers cool and strong, trapping her trembling ones. "Shhh, Chaitali," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple, the scent of peat and sandalwood overwhelming. "Almost done. Bas ek do ghoont aur. Look at me." His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a mockery of comfort. "For courage, haan? Tumhari aankhon mein... ek alag si chamak aa rahi hai." His gaze, intense and unblinking, held hers as he tilted the glass towards her lips. "Chalo. Sip." The crystal rim pressed insistently against her mouth.

"Nahi... sir... please..." Chaitali whimpered, the Bengali thick and slurred. The whisky’s heat was a leaden weight low in her belly, radiating waves of queasy lethargy. Her vision swam – Armaan’s face blurred, the sharp angles softening into smudged shadows. The Rabindra Sangeet twisted into a dissonant drone. She tried to turn her head away, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hand. The cool crystal scbangd her lower lip. "Ek sip," he commanded, his voice dropping to a velvet-coated threat. "Bas." Helpless, she parted her lips. The fiery liquid trickled onto her tongue, coating it in numb bitterness. She choked, swallowing convulsively, the burn flaring anew in her throat and chest. Tears welled, hot and stinging, blurring the candlelight into fractured stars. "Thik hai... ho gaya..." she gasped, her voice raw, a tear escaping to trace a hot path down her flushed cheek.

Armaan didn’t relent. His thigh pressed harder against hers, a solid, immovable presence pinning her in the velvet booth. His free hand rose, calloused fingertips brushing away the tear track with startling intimacy. "Shabash," he murmured, the Hindi praise laced with condescension. "Ab ek aur. Last one." He tilted the glass again, forcing another sip past her trembling lips. This time, the whisky barely registered as fire; it was thick, medicinal sludge sliding down her throat, settling heavily onto the churning pool in her stomach. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, the restaurant tilting violently. Her pallu slipped some more from her covered right shoulder. She slumped back against the booth, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "Sir... mujhe... sach mein..." she whispered, the words dissolving into a thick, incoherent mumble.

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. The sudden proximity, the hot breath, the scent of whisky and sandalwood – it all blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation. "Feel it?" he breathed in English, his voice vibrating low. "Sab kuch... soft ho gaya? Like floating?" His hand, still trapping hers on the table, slid upwards, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive inner skin of her wrist. The touch sent jolts of confused electricity through her whisky-numbed arm, conflicting violently with the nausea churning her gut. "Tumhari skin... kitni garam hai," he observed, his fingers drifting higher, skimming the damp silk of her pallu.

Chaitali whimpered, a soft, involuntary sound muffled by the thick fog in her head. The room tilted violently again, the candle flames stretching into wavering ribbons of light. His thumb pressed harder against her pulse point, the pressure anchoring her in the dizzying spin. "Sir... mujhe... sach mein..." she slurred, her Bengali dissolving into a thick whisper. "Chakkar... bohot..." Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, fluttering shut for seconds at a time. The warmth radiating from his thigh against hers was a solid, oppressive heat, contrasting sharply with the cool silk slipping further off her shoulder.

His fingers slid higher beneath the loose dbang of her pallu, tracing the damp skin along her collarbone. "Chakkar achha hai," he murmured in Hindi, his breath hot. "Means you're letting go. Feel how soft?" His touch lingered on the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse hammered erratically against his fingertip. "Tumhari skin... kitni garam hai," he repeated, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper. "Like silk dipped in sunshine." He leaned closer, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of her ear. "Relax, Chaitali. Bas feel karo..." His other hand, still trapping hers on the table, slid slowly upwards, his fingers intertwining with hers in a mockery of tenderness. The rough pad of his thumb stroked the soft skin between her knuckles, sending confusing shivers through her whisky-numbed arm.

The restaurant tilted violently again. Chaitali gasped, her free hand instinctively clutching the edge of the table. The world dissolved into smears of candlelight and shadow. His thigh pressed harder against hers under the table, a solid, immovable heat anchoring her swaying body. "Sir..." she slurred, the Bengali thick and clumsy. "Mujhe... sach mein... bukhar..." The heat wasn't just inside her now; it radiated from his touch, seeping into her skin where his fingers explored the exposed curve of her shoulder. A choked whimper escaped her lips, drowned by the distorted Rabindra Sangeet. She felt untethered, adrift in a sea of warmth and nausea, the pressure of his thigh and the insistent stroke of his thumb the only fixed points in the spinning room.

"Bukhar nahi, Chaitali," he murmured, his Hindi smooth as silk. "Freedom hai yeh." His fingers traced the damp silk of her pallu where it pooled near her collarbone, then dipped lower, skimming the skin beneath. The pad of his thumb brushed the delicate hollow at the base of her throat. "Feel?" he breathed in English, his voice a low thrum that resonated deep in her whisky-fogged bones. "Sab tightness... gone? Like floating?" His other hand tightened its grip on hers, fingers interlacing possessively. The rough texture of his skin scbangd against her knuckles, sending confusing shivers up her numb arm – a sharp counterpoint to the heavy lethargy weighing down her limbs. His thumb pressed harder into her pulse point, a rhythmic pressure that seemed to echo the frantic drumming in her ears.

His gaze sharpened, finally settling on the unusual dbang of her pallu – folded thickly over both shoulders, concealing her chest entirely. "Yeh pallu ka naya style hai kya?" he asked casually, his Hindi laced with false lightness. "Dono kandhon par? Thoda... unusual lagta hai." He tugged gently at the silk near her right shoulder. "Chalo, dikhao mujhe tumhari blouse. Kaisi pehni hai aaj? Something special for me?" His smile was predatory, anticipating the thin polyester blouse straining across her curves. His fingers slid beneath the silk fold, seeking the expected fabric.

Chaitali jerked back instinctively, her whisky-slowed reflexes clumsy. "Nahi... sir!" she gasped, her Bengali thick with panic. His fingers brushed not polyester, but the sturdy elastic band and textured lace of a bra strap. "Yeh... yeh blouse nahi hai!" she stammered, trying to slap his probing hand away, her palm connecting weakly with his wrist. The movement dislodged the pallu further, revealing a glimpse of dusky skin of the shoulder, the bra strap visible."Aapne bola tha... dress..." The memory of his text – "Casual chic" – twisted into a cruel joke.